


Night of the living dead

by killerweasel



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killerweasel/pseuds/killerweasel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anderson was used to dealing with the dead. He wasn’t used to the dead coming back to life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night of the living dead

Title: Night of the living dead  
Fandom: _Sherlock_  
Characters: Anderson, Sherlock Holmes  
Word Count: 1,692  
Rating: PG  
A/N: AU after _203 The Reichenbach Fall_  
Summary: Anderson was used to dealing with the dead. He wasn’t used to the dead coming back to life.

 

Anderson sat up with a gasp. He could have sworn he heard something fall in another part of the flat. Since he didn’t have any animals and his children were with their mother for the weekend, maybe someone had broken in. If that were the case, the would-be thief was out of luck. His ex-wife had taken the majority of the property when she left.

There was another crash, louder this time. It sounded like whoever was out there was now determined to destroy what little Anderson had. He got up quietly, reached under the bed, and pulled out a cricket bat. Taking a deep breath, he carefully made his way down the hall to the main room.

As he crept into the room, he tightened his grip on the handle of the bat. The moonlight coming through the window was bright enough for him to make out the various pieces of furniture. He couldn’t see anyone moving around or standing in one spot. Maybe they’d left. Anderson started to reach for a nearby lamp when he heard a moan coming from the direction of the couch. They were still here.

He turned the lamp on with one hand while holding the bat with the other. Then he blinked. Anderson hadn’t seen the man in almost three years, but he would always recognize that coat and scarf. The bat fell from his fingers and clattered on the floor. The figure on the couch muttered something that sounded like ‘stop standing like an idiot, and help me, Anderson’. Anderson’s mind was reeling as he stumbled back a couple of steps.

Sherlock Holmes was not dead. Sherlock Holmes was not dead and he was currently staining Anderson’s new white couch with blood. It was the only white piece of furniture in the entire flat, so of course that would be the one he would bleed on. Anderson doubted very much Sherlock would pay to have the couch cleaned either.

The crashes from earlier had been a lamp (now broken) and a stack of medical books (scattered across the floor). There was a trail of blood running from the couch to the door of the flat. Anderson ran a hand over his face and took a couple deep breaths before crouching down next to the former consulting detective.

Sherlock might not be dead, but he certainly didn’t look very well. Anderson had never seen him this thin before. Sherlock’s normally pale complexion was almost translucent. Anderson started to touch Sherlock’s shoulder when the man opened one eye. It startled Anderson enough he fell backwards, banging his tailbone on the floor in the process. A smile crossed Sherlock’s face. It was there and gone so quickly Anderson thought he had imagined it. Anderson got into a crouch again, ignoring the heat in his face.

With a pained groan, Sherlock sat up. He swayed back and forth on the couch and nearly toppled off. Anderson put out a hand to steady him and could feel moisture under his fingers. That wasn’t good at all. Sherlock held still as Anderson removed what he thought of as The Coat. He set it on the floor and then focused on the shirt in front of him. The normally dark purple shirt was almost black with blood. He could see a long slice in the material just under Sherlock’s ribs. Sherlock was going to need stitches.

Anderson got up and went into the kitchen. He grabbed a couple of cloths, filled a bowl with hot water, and then went into the bathroom to grab his first aid kit. Sherlock was still sitting where he’d left him. The man’s hands were trembling as he tried to unbutton his shirt. Anderson reached out, setting his hands on Sherlock’s wrists. Sherlock sighed as he gave up on the buttons, allowing Anderson to do it instead. Anderson eased Sherlock out of the ruined shirt, dropping it on the floor next to The Coat.

The wound under Sherlock’s ribs was long and fairly deep. It didn’t look like anything vital had been damaged though. Sherlock lay down on the couch and closed his eyes as Anderson began to clean it off. The water had gone from hot to warm. Anderson dipped a cloth into the water and very carefully, began to clean the injury. Sherlock hissed a couple of times under his breath as the cloth came into contact with the worst spots, but other than that, said nothing.

Anderson made sure to keep his stitches nice and neat. He knew that Sherlock would never let him hear the end of it if the scar came out crooked. He was half-way finished when Sherlock began to say things. His voice seemed a bit off, almost like he hadn’t really talked to anyone in quite some time. The man who had wounded him was apparently the last of Moriarty’s top people. He’d almost gutted Sherlock like a fish before Sherlock had responded in kind. Anderson didn’t ask where the body was. He really didn’t want to know.

Part of Anderson wanted to apologize for the events leading up to Sherlock’s disgrace and suicide. After everything had gone so pear-shaped, Anderson had started doubting himself and all of the theories he and Sally had come up with. It just didn’t add up. The key piece to the puzzle had been when he’d asked his children about Richard Brook’s show. They’d never heard of it. These were children who spent a large part of their day in front of the telly, they would know about something like that.

All of the cases Sherlock had assisted on were suddenly called into question. The result was the entire team looked bad in the public eye. Lestrade had painstakingly gone through each case with the higher-ups, proving that the actual work and the evidence couldn’t possibly have been faked. While Lestrade was exonerated, everyone started looking at Anderson and Sally as if they had some sort of plague and no one wanted anything to do with them. He did have to give Lestrade credit. Lestrade never had them transferred elsewhere, just suggested they might want to find another team in the near future because looking at the two of them made him sick.

Anderson was mainly working with Detective Inspector Dimmock now. He would occasionally run into Lestrade at a particularly horrible crime scene and they’d exchange a nod, but that was about it. Anderson did his job and went on with his life, constantly trying to ignore the fact he was at least partly responsible for the death of the world’s only consulting detective.

He didn’t say any of this to Sherlock because he figured the man had deduced parts of it on his own, probably by just looking at Anderson’s face and the way he moved his body. At this point, Anderson had deduced a couple of things on his own. He didn’t have to have Sherlock’s giant brain in order to come to a few conclusions.

First, Sherlock had come to him when he needed help instead of one of his friends because he knew Anderson wouldn’t be overcome by emotions at seeing the supposedly dead man alive again. Second, Anderson’s flat was probably closer than 221B. With as much blood as Sherlock had been losing, he wouldn’t have made it all the way home. And third, while Anderson didn’t like the man, sometimes even hated the man, he wouldn’t turn away someone who was injured, even if that someone was Sherlock.

He put in the last couple of stitches and sat back, checking over his work. That should do the trick. He rinsed his fingers a few times in the bowl of lukewarm water to get the crimson off. When he glanced over at Sherlock, the man’s eyes were closed. Anderson wondered when he’d slept last. He tried to imagine himself being on the run while hunting down criminals for almost three years and just couldn’t see it. He wouldn’t have been able to do something like that.

After cleaning everything up, Anderson went into the kitchen to start some soup and tea. He was determined to get something of substance into Sherlock before the man wandered off again. After putting him back together again, he really didn’t need Sherlock to keel over five feet from the flat. While the soup was cooking, he went into his room to find Sherlock a new shirt. He didn’t have anything similar to what Sherlock used to wear and ended up with something which would probably fit the younger man.

Sherlock was sitting up when he came back into the room. He stared at the shirt Anderson held out to him for a moment. Then he grabbed it with a sigh and put it on. He still couldn’t do up the buttons, so Anderson gave him a hand. Sherlock ate the soup, but only after Anderson gave him a look he frequently used on his children when they were being stubborn.

It was almost dawn when Sherlock got to his feet. He put on his coat and scarf when Anderson handed them to him. Anderson called him a cab. He knew where Sherlock was going next. Hopefully, John wouldn’t pop any of Sherlock’s stitches when he saw his flatmate and friend again. Whatever John did, Sherlock deserved it.

Sherlock didn’t thank Anderson, but he hadn’t really expected him to. He did say his brother would purchase a new couch to replace the bloodstained one. Sherlock looked better than when Anderson had first seen him. His color had improved a bit and he was no longer shaking.

The cab honked as it pulled in front of the building. Sherlock stood there, staring at Anderson. Anderson smiled at him. He was actually relieved Sherlock wasn’t dead, even if it meant he’d probably have to deal with the man at future crime scenes. Sherlock nodded and stepped outside. Anderson waited to close the door until he saw Sherlock get into the cab. It felt like a large weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He found himself smiling as he headed back to bed.


End file.
